


Vivisepulture

by DustToDust



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustToDust/pseuds/DustToDust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim remembers the brilliant flash of light and the blinding pain but nothing else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A specific request for a JayTim ending to Tim being buried alive in a coffin and having to break free.

Tim wakes up in a coffin.

The padding cradling his body and the sense of crushing _weight_ is too prominent to ignore. The feel of his best suit against his skin a story in and of itself. Something in Tim's mind laughs. Uncontrollably and shrill, it almost escapes him, because he's _alive_. The remembered flash of light and heat that he _knows_ was his end seems distant with the utter lack of pain in his body now. 

Panic and fear bubble up in Tim as he presses up against the lid of his coffin. Almost blinding in intensity. Is this how Jason felt when he came back? Choking on his panic as he tried to figure out how to get out before suffocating. Tried to _feel_ how strong the coffin was, how easy it might be to break his way out. Wondering if there was a vault around it sealing him in forever.

Dirt trickles over Tim's fingers as he feels lower. It's a wave of cold ice over the gibbering panic.

There's dirt in his coffin. 

The join of the lid is buckled slightly. Bowing in under the weight of the dirt above it. He's not been encased in a vault, and his coffin isn't the most expensive one on the market. Tim feels his face stretch in a smile.

After Jason, Tim had done his research. 

There's nothing in his suit pockets. Nothing in the coffin itself and that seems irresponsible considering the rate at which people come back from the dead. Though, to be fair, he thinks Jason is the only one who has done that straight from the grave.

He strips out of the suit jacket. Trying not to think too much about the fact that it's been altered and comes off easily due to the fact that it's cut in the back. The button down shirt he's wearing is the same, and the tie is a clip on. He isn't wearing an undershirt. Tim rips the shirt up a bit more. Enough to get long strips to tie around his nose and mouth. He hesitates over making one for his eyes before tearing another strip. It's too dark to see anyway.

He pulls himself up as far as he can in the coffin. Until he can kick out at the already partially collapsed section. It's awkward. He can't get the leverage he needs to force a hole in the lid with one kick. It takes four before Tim feels the rush of dirt coming in increase. He kicks down. Shoving the dirt to the foot of the coffin before kicking out again. Feeling the lid cave under his feet until the gap seems large enough. 

Dirt still pours into the coffin as Tim shifts back down. He pushes it away. Packing it into the unused portions of the head and foot of the coffin. He reaches up when the trickle slows and feels a good ten inches of clear space outside before his fingers hit dirt. He digs his fingers in and pulls. There's not enough space yet for Tim to sit up.

The dirt comes down easily. It's still loose and hasn't had time to settle and compact. Tim takes it as a good sign as he pushes dirt down with his bare foot. The fancy dress shoes he'd been put in abandoned quickly. He's bothered by the fact that he's not wearing socks, but comfort for a corpse probably doesn't matter much to funeral home workers.

Tim has to curl up slightly on his side before there's enough room for him to get his head and upper body out of the coffin. The scent of moist earth, present in the coffin, is overwhelming as he twists out. Trying to avoid the sharp edges of the lid, but scraping his back badly enough that Tim's not surprised to feel warm liquid --blood-- rolling down his back when his head hits the upper part of the cavity he's dug out.

The dirt shifts with the slight push and Tim works his arms out next. Pulling himself up enough that he's crouching. He sinks his fingers into the dirt above his head again and rakes down. Scooping armfuls of dirt down and shoving it under his legs until he can pull himself out. Bare feet slipping slightly on the smooth metal of the coffin before he gets his balance.

Tim pauses and assesses. He can keep digging and packing the dirt under him. A slow action that'll get him free before his air runs out. Or he can push through it. The dirt is loose enough that he can push straight up and get most of the way out in a matter of minutes.

Tim feels fine. He feels better than fine actually, and that brings up thoughts about what might have brought him back that Tim pushes aside for the moment. He's not injured or in any pain at all. He's confident in his strength and the dirt that he can pull himself free. Tim takes a deep breath and shoves his hands up above his head. Locking the elbows in place and standing.

The dirt parts reluctantly and standing is a slow business. Dirt presses against his face. Close and suffocatingly tight. It gets harder to stand and Tim spreads his arms slightly. Pushing the dirt aside even as he reaches up. Dirt pools around his feet and Tim kicks free of it. Shifting them to push it down and push himself up.

The fingers of his right hand meet resistance. Tim pushes harder and feels something like fine threads give before he feels open air and coarse grass. His hand pushes through to open air and Tim feels a surge of elation. The grass shifts as he grips it, but it's steady enough for him to grab and pull. His left hand breaking through seconds later. Dirt crumbles under his feet but Tim pushes and pulls. Inching himself up almost painfully as the dirt seems to push in even tighter around him. Tim breathes in short bursts.

Hands close around Tim's wrists. Sudden and hard. Tim flinches before letting go of the ground to grab back as he's pulled up. His shoulders twinge at the yanking motion but Tim bears with it as his head clears the ground and his next breath is cool. 

"Jesus!" The hands slide down. Going into the dirt to grab him under his arms and Tim wraps his own around a broad back. Hard and covered in leather. Tim doesn't need anything more than that to know who's yanking him out of the hole he was buried in. "No, no, no. Fuck, Tim!"

Tim gets to his knees in grass that's wet with dew that completely soaks the pants he's wearing. Rough hands rip the tattered shirt away from his face and Tim blinks in the faint light from the stars and moon. Jason looks _furious_. His hands bruising as they go from his face to his neck. Fingers pressing hard against the pulse point. "Oh fuck, Tim. No. Not you."

"Jay," Tim chokes on the name. Coughs at the dryness in his throat and shaking from it. He doesn't stop shaking when the coughing subsides. Not even when Jason pulls him in for a tight hug. "I. I died. Right?"

The details are fuzzy but seem important now that he can turn his head and see his own tombstone. His name carved in white granite along with his dates. He can't make out the epitaph in the faint light. Not without getting closer, and Jason's not letting Tim go anytime soon.

"You never should have," Jason is angry. Tim can hear it in his voice, and can clearly hear the pain hiding below it. His fingers dig into Tim's bare back. One catching in the scrape on his lower back painfully. "You shouldn't have gone through that."

"I'm," Tim chokes on lies. He's not alright, he won't be alright for a while he thinks. But that's for later. The problems and issues too far away for Tim to worry about. Tim clings to Jason. Feeling soothed by the fine tremors going through the older man. "Thank you."

"Fuck," Jason grits out and stands. Pulling Tim with him and not letting go at all. "You just-"

Tim's knees wobble before strengthening and holding his weight. He can see the cemetery now. It's empty. Flowers and cards scattered at the base of his tombstone. A glowing ember catches his eye. A still lit cigarette lies next to a small pile of butts. Far more than should be there for a single night. Some of the cards are warped from moisture, and the flowers are becoming withered. "Were you," Tim turns back to Jason, but the man's holding him too tight to see his face, "waiting?"

Jason laughs, and it's broken and _off_. He squeezes tight before stepping back. Tim feels cold even as he locks onto Jason's face. The dark grin he has as he laughs again. "I fucking knew. I _knew_ this shit'd happen again," Jason doesn't stop looking at Tim, his right hand still curled around Tim's upper arm. "I've _been_ there, Tim. I fucking _know_ what it looks like, but those fuckers wouldn't _listen_ to me. They wouldn't wait!"

It doesn't make sense in any way Tim can explain logically, but feels perfectly right. And, of course, no one would give Jason's words much weight without good solid evidence. Even though they _should_ have. There's precedence, after all, for what happens when one family member is dismissed as sounding too crazy. 

Tim shivers in a cold wind and puts that aside too. He's got all the time in the world to think about this later. "I'm cold."

"Of course you are," Jason mutters and shucks his jacket off. Wrapping it around Tim himself and not entirely removing his arms. "It sticks around for a while."

Experience. Tim can hear it in his voice. "What stops it?"

"You'll find something," Jason says as he moves. Pulling Tim in against his side and urging him away towards the cemetery exit. Tim goes willingly. Still shivering as he loses sight of the stone and the gaping hole in the ground. "Something always chases it away."

Tim believes him.


	2. Chapter 2

The Replacement is dead. Jason breaks into the Cave and forces himself to go to the cold room that has one table. Forces himself to peel back the far too white sheet and take it all in. The burns and cuts and carefully stitched Y incision from the autopsy.

Jason wants to laugh because it just figures that the fucker would follow him in this as well. Would die from being _blown up_. He wants to laugh but he can't. The sound curls up and dies in his chest along with the feeling of the bomb tearing into him. The impossibly tight pressure that slammed him into darkness.

There's no hair left and without it, Tim doesn't look like Tim. There's a lot of other reasons why the corpse on the table doesn't look like Tim, but Jason's stuck on the hair. He wonders if they'll put a wig on when they bury him. Not that it matters. It's obviously going to be a closed casket funeral.

Jason carefully covers the body up before leaving because he's under no illusion that he got in unnoticed. Making sure each corner of the sheet is as even and precise as it was when he came in. The last thing he wants to do is make Alfred come down here and cover it up again, because Jason knows that Bruce won't be able to.

The stairs leading up are empty when Jason wanders out. Pointedly so, but Jason ignores them and heads back out. Heads to the city and his bed. Flops down on it and pretends he's going to sleep. Pretends he's not going to close his eyes and hear --see/smell/feel/taste-- the explosion.

~

Jason gives up around noon. Rolling out of bed to shower off the sweat and sit in the stained tub under the water. Shivering hard because the few hours of sleep he got weren't filled with bombs. Weren't loud with laughter or pain.

His dreams were all about waking up in the dark. Smelling stale, rotten air and feeling his nails break and peel away from his fingers.

It follows him out of the shower and into the day. Pervasive and heavy in a way that makes Jason more than a bit crazy until he gives in and heads out. Full of doubts and a horrible, sinking suspicion.

~

Timothy Drake-Wayne is in a hospital morgue. The news is probably thick with stories of some car accident or another. Cameras following all the known Waynes as they grieve publicly and shit. There's extra security around the morgue and a few hopeful vultures with cameras plotting to break in anyway.

Jason takes an obscene amount of pleasure in destroying their expensive ass cameras and running them off with enough threats to keep them shaking for the rest of their lives. Getting into the morgue isn't easy and Jason's very aware of how little of a time window he has as he pulls out the tray Tim's in.

He's in a proper body bag now and doesn't look one damn bit better than before. Not even the undertaker, scheduled to come by in an hour, is going to be able to do anything with him.

Jason forces himself to stop looking at the damage and just _look_. To focus instead on an elbow. A stretch of unmarked skin that looks so fucking normal. Wrinkled and a little dry. It's easy, when he's not letting his eyes trick him, to tell that Tim isn't really dead.

No. He is dead but Jason knows better than most how very little that means anymore.

There's something that Jason can't really describe, but can feel. Some underlying energy, the taut anticipation that he's going to take a breath any second now. Tim isn't going to stay dead. He's going to come back. Jason is convinced of it by the time he leaves the morgue. Slipping past the guards and a newly arrived Dick. Alerted by someone and looking for him.

Jason doesn't bother stopping to tell him because it's not Dick's name that'll get Tim's body released.

~

So, Jason does the stupid thing and goes straight to Bruce. Just him and no one else because Jason's fucked up mind apparently still thinks Bruce can fix shit.

Ha. Jason's mind is stupid as fuck because despite the fact that there's _precedence_ for this shit, despite the hell Tim went through for _Bruce_ , Jason gets shut down fast.

Painfully fast.

He's reevaluating his options and picking shards of glass out of his back, and knows he doesn't have any now. He's tipped Bruce off and anything Jason does is going to be picked apart and twisted into something it's not.

The problem is trust. More specifically the lack of it in their happy ass little family. Jason can put together a hundred page slide show of irrefutable evidence supporting his conclusion and still get shut down cold just because it's _him_ saying it. Going to the mat for this is the right thing to do but nobody is going to give Jason even half a second to listen to him and Tim's going to be the one to suffer for it.

So fuck doing this by their rules.

Jason goes to ground. Working hard to avoid everyone. Even Oracle's all seeing eyes can be avoided if he just works hard enough at it. He stops patrolling and let's them all think he's grieving, maybe even being more of a head case than usual. He makes sure to get into one brutal and bloody fight a night. Let's the scum he's beating on get away with talk of finding Hood a little too far in a bottle. Dick tries harder to track him down as the days slip by but Jason isn't anywhere near where he's looking.

Johnson Funeral Home is a family owned business that caters to the richer families, but they're Gotham through and through. It costs a pretty penny to switch out the casket with no questions asked. Even more to get one made in time for the funeral to look exactly like what Alfred has picked out. One that's made of much cheaper material. Good enough to stand the weight of dirt but not so good it'd be impossible to break like the original one was.

The gravediggers are next. Bruce has paid for a concrete vault to place the casket in. One more layer to keep the body safe, and a second death sentence for Tim. It's easy to arrange for the top to be set aside though. For the dirt to be filled around it. Making sure no one sees that happening is harder.

Jason doesn't attend the viewing. Any of them. He deliberately waits until the casket has been lowered and most of the crowd has left to appear in the graveyard. The gravediggers are taking their time in lowering the lid and Jason's about to take drastic measures when Dick finally sees him.

He nearly blesses the asshole when he drags everyone away. Literally in Bruce's case. Just far enough away that they can all watch but not actually _see_. Jason tolerates the hug Dick pulls him into and the suffocation of grief and stoic silence for as long as it takes the hole to be filled. The gravediggers nod to him as they leave and no one notices.

(Oh, Cassandra's dark eyes watch him, watch _everyone_ , but her mouth stays shut and that's what's important.)

Bruce doesn't notice and that almost scares Jason, but his back still aches from being thrown through several windows and the man can go to hell. Jason tried to tell him.

~

Waiting is the worst part of it.

A gut feeling isn't anything specific and it sure as hell isn't an explanation. Far as Jason can figure he stayed dead a couple of months before coming back. So there's no telling when Tim'll be back, and that aggravates the fuck out of Jason.

There'd been a second part to his plan that involved grave robbery and a very well sealed safe house, but that'd been put on hold almost immediately. Mostly because that part of the plan needed a good chunk of uninterrupted time to pull off, and Tim's grave seems to have turned into a tourist trap. In the day it's reporters getting stock photos or civilians who only ever saw Tim under the sun with a mask more solid than any of the ones he wore on the job. At night it's an unpredictable parade of masks. Some expected but most not. They stop by with flowers or trinkets and stay an unreasonably long time. Either standing in silence or making speeches like their lives depend on it.

Jason watches it all from the shadows of a broken angel statue. Impatient for this mourning period to end and, he's not afraid to admit, jealous of it as well. There weren't enough people in his life to build up the mini-memorial that Tim's grave is rocking right now. Sure, Bruce could do a mean loom of grief, but he's pretty sure no one outside of the Gotham night crowd ever even saw his grave.

Two blonde girls get up from the ground and walk away after a few hours of talking. Jason doesn't know them and they're in civilians, but they visited at night and one of them walks the walk. They're the third people to visit tonight. Their presence rousting Jason from his spot on the ground and sending him into hiding. There'll be more. Two that Jason can count on before the sun comes up and forces him to abandon his post or spend an awkward session with the police.

The girls had brought a card and Jason finds it near the flattened area he normally sits on. It's torn in half. The signed part filled with more than two names and some children's scrawl is propped up behind wilting daisies one of the speedsters brought yesterday. The front half has been carefully folded into a square bowl and filled with dirt. The spent butts of the cigarettes Jason has been inhaling by the carton are neatly stuffed inside it.

Jason taps out another cigarette and lights up. Laying down so he has one ear on the ground to listen. He hears nothing for the rest of the night, but the make shift ashtray looks almost like a porcupine when he leaves for good as the sky starts to lighten.

~

For all the time Jason spends in the cemetery --letting his territory go to shit-- he pretty much fails his self appointed task, because of some punk ass kids who think they can have a grand old time with some spray cans at the cemetery. Jason's stomping back, cursing stupidity, when something makes his blood run cold.

Jason doesn't stop moving but he goes on high alert. Scanning for what caused the reaction. Looking for the problem that has all his instincts screaming in alarm. It's not until something moves on the ground that he can pinpoint it, and it takes him precious seconds to parse the image together with meaning.

_Fingers_. A hand. Reaching out and curling into the grass, looking for a grip.

"Fuck!" Jason's on his knees in a flash, grabbing it --grabbing _Tim_ \-- with both hands and pulling as hard as he can. "Oh, fuck, Tim."

Tim grabs back. Hard and desperate as they both fight to get him above ground. The ground shifting and bulging before it crumbles. A head clearing the ground by a few inches, and Jason can hear Tim breathing. Quick, desperate pants for air that are just measured enough to let him know the man is holding onto his control with a desperate grip that's liable to fail before the night's over.

"Jesus!" Jason punches down into the dirt hard. Grabbing around Tim's chest for more leverage to pull. He comes out like a weed. All in one gangly piece and with thick clumps of dirt flying everywhere.

Normally, Jason would have laughed at the image. Normally, Jason isn't freaking right the fuck out. It wasn't supposed to be like this, Jason was supposed to be able to _do_ something. "No, no, no. Fuck, Tim!"

Tim's legs fold too easily and he's _shaking_. There's dirty shreds of cloth on his face. Wrapped around his eyes, nose, and mouth. Jason rips it all off and stops himself from spitting out the phantom taste of dirt. Focuses instead on checking Tim over, watching his way too wide eyes flit around his face without really focusing on Jason. "Oh fuck, Tim. No. Not you."

"Jay," Tim sounds like he looks and his name cracks oddly before Tim doubles up and tries to hack out a lung. Jason remembers, vividly, how it felt like dirt was caked all along his throat and lungs for months, and reels Tim in. Giving him something solid and real to cling to as he finds his voice again. "I. I died. Right?"

"You never should have," Jason feels Tim's head shift, follows his gaze to the gravestone. Bright even in the dark and Jason hates it. Hates that Tim has to see it like this, because Jason spends half his time alternating between complete apathy and blinding rage at the stone still standing with his name in this cemetery. "You shouldn't have gone through that."

"I'm," Tim starts but Jason doesn't find out what Tim is because he cuts off abruptly with a strangled sound. It's alright though. Jason's sure whatever was going to come out of his mouth was the same bullshit the man usually spouted before. When he was alive the first time. Tim's arms wind tight around Jason, verging on painful as he keeps on shaking. "Thank you."

It's said shakily but deadly honest, and it sends a lightning flash of pain through Jason.

"Fuck," no one did this for him. No one was there when he came back. It's a pain filled with anger, jealousy, and a fierce kind of _gladness_. Because Jason is here now, he's here for Tim and no one else is. No one else has the _right_ to be here for this. 

Jason stands, gets them both up on their feet, and has to take most of Tim's weight. "You just-"

Tim wavers but gets his balance quickly enough. Jason breathes in deep, ignores the stale scent that makes his entire chest clench and burn, and tries to get back on track. Get back to the plan he'd made at the beginning of this mess.

"Were you waiting?" Tim asks and he sounds absolutely stunned. Like the thought of that surprises him.

Jason laughs because if he doesn't he might scream. He lets Tim go and takes a step back. One step, and a forced second. "I fucking knew," Jason doesn't let go completely. Tim sways as he moves and Jason uses that as an excuse to hold on tight as he lets the bitterness flow out of his mouth. "I knew this shit'd happen again. I've been there, Tim. I fucking know what it looks like, but those fuckers wouldn't listen to me. They wouldn't wait!"

Tim's stare isn't so blank right now, but the emotions in them are muted. By tiredness, by reanimation, or an utter lack of surprise. Jason doesn't really know but it's probably a little of all of them.

He just nods, acceptingly, and then shivers hard, "I'm cold."

"Of course you are," Jason remembers that too. Of being cold no matter where he was even when the Pit burned him through. He pulls his jacket off and puts it around Tim. The leathered armor nearly swallows him up and Jason keeps his arms right where they are when he's done. He doesn't know if it'll help but he does remember wanting this too. The closeness, the touch to confirm it's all real. "It sticks around for a while."

"What stops it?"

A picture of a stranger in _his_ place. Among a few others. For the first time since the damn bomb went off, Jason starts to wonder why he's doing any of this. Why he's going so far for someone he's had a hell of a grudge with for so long.

"You'll find something," Jason says and pushes the question of 'why' to the side. It doesn't matter so much anymore, because no one deserves this. He's done it, he knows. 

"Something always chases it away," Jason answers honestly and turns them away from the disturbed grave. The night isn't over and there's still one visitor due that Jason doesn't want to see.

Bruce is going to flip out when he sees the hole Tim dug and Jason's looking forward to it with a grim vindictiveness. Just not from up close. Not tonight, not so soon. But later?

Jason smiles into the night as Tim follows each nudge. His bare feet as silent as Jason's boots. Jason has _plans_ for later.


End file.
